The problem with history is that it’s not remembered so much as it is reconstructed from the bones and fables left behind by those who came before. Those venerated tales of antiquity, so full of meaning and inspiration to the modern ear, are often so grossly corrupted and idealized in their endless retelling that almost nothing remains of their true significance. Even those accounts that find their way to the written page do not emerge unscathed, as the tides of time drag even the meanings of words themselves away from their original moorings and thereby reduce the artifice of the scribe to a misshapen wreckage as the centuries trundle onward.

So it has always been. Empires rise, rot, and fall like leaves on a branch, and with the turning of the seasons another power will bud and bloom.

Every tree must eventually die, and likewise every world has its final dusk.

Unless someone can stop the sun.